


Chasing Strays

by MONANIK



Series: Meet-ugly oneshots [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Based on a Tumblr Post, Cat Mom Keith (Voltron), Cats, Childish Shiro (Voltron), Drinking, Drunk Shiro (Voltron), Flirting, Gay Shiro (Voltron), Hunk & Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Keith & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Mutual Pining, POV Keith (Voltron), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Romantic Fluff, Shiro (Voltron) is a Dork, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Shiro breaks into Keith's apartment, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Soft Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: Shiro broke into Keith's apartment, drunk, and he should call the cops but his cat kinda likes him.





	Chasing Strays

**Author's Note:**

> Song in this fic is: Yellow Days -- A Little While
> 
> This was based off a prompt I found on tumblr by tokiosunset.

_Lone wolf,_ they called him. Always thriving in solidarity. Always on his own. Survival of the fittest type of bullshit. And it was true, he didn’t need people—didn’t need anyone. Keith was perfectly content with himself and his situation. His apartment, while entirely too rundown to be priced as highly as it was, suited his needs and provided shelter enough. What else could he possibly ask for? It was more than he had growing up. Way more. So, yes. He was a _lone wolf_ , and he spent most of his time in solidarity. So what? Who decided it a rule to constantly surround oneself with strangers and overzealous acquaintances?

 

So, to say he was surprised to find his apartment door busted open—swaying gently in the draft and creaking from its labor—would be an understatement. Every sense kicked into overdrive, so much so that he could physically feel his ears adjust to every creak and snap. Feel the quickening of his heartbeat, drunk on adrenaline, and the tension rising in his shoulders. He crunched forward in a defensive stance, dad’s old pocketknife ready in hand, and approached the still gently swaying door with the silence only a predator could muster. His apartment was dark inside, though still breathing in the soft lightning of the set evening sun. Rays of rich ruby filtered through the blinds on the other end of the corridor and grazed every surface in its colors. He continued his stealth mission into his own apartment, ready to pounce at the slightest of movement, the most minor misplaced sound.

 

And there was—a sound—only it wasn’t what he’d have expected. Nothing in his wildest fantasy, in his most consuming of highs, could have prepared him for the alien sound of a grown, adult male cooing from somewhere in his living-room, uninvited a late afternoon. It was a squeaky, raspy sound that which mingled with soft words of adoration. He focused all his attention on it and managed to make out words in the raspy mumbles, “…jus’ the cutest thin’ eve’…”.

 

He cursed quietly to himself in the shadow of his hallway, steadying the hold on his miniature knife, vaguely searching his mind for where he’d last hid his gun. Pondering to perhaps go for one of the kitchen knives, though quickly discarding the idea. If whoever was in there was bigger than him his chances are heightened greatly by the advantage of a sharp, fine blade against the soft skin of a human throat, rather than to try to stab the equivalence of a small truck with a measly kitchen knife not sharpened often enough. Judging by the deep vowels and the low grumble between mumbles trickling out in short bursts through the opening just ahead to his right, whoever was in there was if nothing else a full-grown man. _Perfectly capable of busting open his door, at that._

 

A deep inhale of a breath later and he was moving, turning right, and readying to jump at whoever had thought it a wise choice to test Keith’s nerves and insatiable bloodthirst, but the sight before him stopped him dead in his tracks. Right there, a mere few feet from him on the hardwood floor, sat a grown man—cross legged—with Kuro fondly nuzzling his stomach. Sprawled out in his delicate, elegant glory over firm legs wrapped in stained, washed-out jeans. Their eyes met, and Keith dumbly noted that the man was of Asian origin, a scar traveling thickly over the bridge of his nose and partially over alcohol-flushed cheeks, with a shock of short, white hair sitting atop his head in a mess of tangles and tussles. Keith lowered his knife in utter stupor, still attempting to process the situation as it slowly unfolded and unraveled right before his eyes. Then, as if to further crumble his sanity, the guy had the galls to _speak to him._

“Oh! Hi!” he hickuped, grinning dumbly up at Keith as if he were the intruder, as if Keith were the elephant in the room. _Alcohol, duh._ He reprimanded himself and let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the beaten doorframe, “How did you break into my apartment?” he asked in lieu of an answer to the drunk’s fumbling greeting.

 

“I opened the door,” he said, as if he were telling Keith how the sky is blue and not how he busted through a stranger’s apartment door, unashamed, and proceeded to… pet his cat?

 

He looked at the traitorous feline still nuzzled in the crooks and curves of the man’s firm, wide body and found himself captivated by the maddeningly adorable sight. Kuro was, much like Keith himself, a solidary, wild little thing. Black and fluffy with the biggest, softest, green eyes. Well, _Keith_ knew they were soft. To everyone else he seemed in a constant state of miserable contemplation, which perhaps even held some truth to it. Keith assumed Kuro hated company as much as he did, if the angry hissing at anything not genetically composed of _Keith_ was anything to go by. But in the quiet murmur of their apartment vents, when it was just him and his ball of dense love resting snugly on his chest, no one could convince him that Kuro was anything but head over heels in love with him and perfectly content where he spends his days—curled on top of Keith, purring in constant delight.

 

So, to see that same otherwise alarmingly distant cat nuzzle and purr at someone other than him made him drop his guard instantly. Kuro liked him, so Keith liked him too. Besides, he seemed about as threatening as a toddler. A very big toddler but a toddler, nonetheless.

 

The blade made a clicking sound as it was retracted with a swift flick of his wrist, and he sauntered over towards the intruder, a little hesitant on how to go about the ordeal. Again, Keith was a solidary being. Communication with strangers was normally entirely off the radar. Unless he was forced to. This seemed like one of those times—where he has to.

 

“Hey…”, he drawled, bending down to get a proper look at his surprise visitor, “What’s your name, buddy? You drunk?”, he asked, knowing fully well the answer to at least one of his questions.

 

The burly, toddler-like man on his flor shifted and the floorboards creaked. “My name ‘s Shiro!”, he slurred, eyes droopy with alcohol but bright and youthful all the same, “Sorr’ ‘bout your door.”, he said and reached out a shaky, sweaty palm towards Keith.

 

They shook hands and Keith proceeded to ask him why he was here. Shiro said he got lost and met Kuro—who’d escaped his baby-confides—sneaking around outside, so he’d started chasing him around the block for half an hour until Kuro tired and went back inside. Any rational being would at this point turn and walk away—if they’d at all in the first place had the uncaring confidence and energy to chase a possibly stray cat around for half an hour. Shiro, though, was—as established—a big toddler. Especially when drunk, it seems, so he did what he thought was logical and broke into his apartment because he— _“Really wan’ed to pet the cat!”._ Shiro apologized over and over, all while remaining where he was stroking Kuro’s wild fur until it shone with grease.

 

“You’re real’ pretty,” he grinned at Keith, folding and unfolding Kuro’s ears over his eyes, “Do you have a boyfrien’?”, he asked. Keith stumbled over his words and nearly choked on the juice he’d poured himself and Shiro. He liked to think that he was good with kids, surprisingly enough, but apparently the concoction of an adult with the brain and vocabulary of a child was where the line crossed. He felt heat rise in his cheeks, a sudden and uncontrollable flame, and considered perhaps pouring himself a little something from his stash. Just to steady his haywire nerves. But Keith was a flirty drunk, and he wasn’t sure how well he could control himself in front of this greasy, messy, sexy bastard. If there was one thing Keith loved, it was people who where such disaster he knew for a fact they’d need him to watch their ass for them. Figuratively and literally.

 

“Wha’s your cat’s name?”, Shiro asked him, eyebrows scrunched together as if this were the most important question of his life. “Kuro,” he said, smile so wide it pulled at the skin around his lips and made him want to cover his mouth; a habit he’d long since grown out of. He looked at Shiro’s mouth as it formed an adorable ‘o’ in wonder and delight, and—now that he had a name for the fluffy void in his lap—he proceeded to coo at him using his name this time. He chuckled, “It means black in Japanese and so I thought it fitting,” he told him, legs stretched out on the floor and his torso propped up on sore elbows.

 

He’d definitely feel it later, and his long day working with Hunk in the shop wasn’t making it easy to remain awake and aware, but he couldn’t rip his eyes off Shiro. Not because he worried Shiro would steal anything. Hell, he’d help him look if it meant finding anything of actual value aside from his abused wallet and bike-keys. No, this was different. This was Keith being completely infatuated with Shiro’s giddy, childlike drunkenness. This was Keith getting lost in stormy clouds over a pale, pale sky. He felt the inexplainable itch to protect him. To pull him close and hold him there until time ceased and all else lost value. It was strange. It was bizarre, even. He didn’t even feel this strongly about himself, much less a stranger who’d busted through and into his apartment and—consequently—into his life.

 

Shiro shook him out of his thought loop. “’m Japanese, too,” he said, and it took Keith a moment to comprehend what the crap he was talking about. Until it clicked that he was referring to his explanation about Kuro being a Japanese name. Right. _The present, Keith._

 

“I figured.”, he said, smirking, and watched the bafflement as it grew on Shiro’s face, “Are you a wizar’?” he mumbled, shocked into complete stillness. Kuro meowed and bumped his hand with his head, frustrated at the sudden stiffness of his newfound buddy. Keith tried not to let it sting a little to see him so fond of someone besides Keith. _If you love them let them go, right?_

 

He snorted, “Not a wizard. Just got two fully functional eyes, and you do look Asian, that much I could guess,” he confessed in amusement and watched as realization washed over Shiro much the same way it would over a child learning why two plus two equals four. He tried to will his silly grin away, but he couldn’t help its stretch across his skin. It almost hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him smile like this. In any other scenario Keith would have been wary of drunk people. Especially guys tend to get violent when drunk, and that’s coming from personal experience. But not Shiro. Shiro only seemed to unwind, lose his filter and wall simultaneously. It made something alight in his chest and something heavy lift off his shoulders. He could feel his muscle loosen, and he let himself slump forward in a disastrous posture Lance would surely scold him for.

 

Lance would also tell him to not let this opportunity pass. To _do something_ when it’s needed, even if it makes his voice shake and his legs wobble. That he should let himself fall and see who’ll catch him first. And if not, well, he’d get a pretty bad lump and possibly a concussion, but he’d survive. And isn’t that what all this is about? Chasing life? Well, in Shiro’s case it was about chasing a cat, but Keith had been chasing something his entire life. Running through and from everything. Always in a haste. Never slowing down to notice cats wandering the street. Never having the stamina to then chase them around the block until his own stubbornness brought him to the door of something new, something interesting. Something soft and cuddly and in dying need of attention.

 

“Hey, Shiro,” he said to the silence. The man in question hummed his acknowledgement, but otherwise kept up the slow threading of his fingers. “Do you like to dance, Shiro?”, he asked, breath in his throat.

 

It caught his full attention, for his head snapped up so fast Keith feared he’d get whiplash. “I love dancing!”, he exclaimed in delight and unceremoniously threw Kuro off his lap. The fuzzy feline didn’t seem to mind more than the loss of contact, still chasing the warmth of Shiro’s big, calloused hands.

 

He stood up abruptly and wobbled, nearly toppled over, but was caught by Keith and his lightning reflexes. Suddenly he had an armful of cute and couldn’t help but soften at the lines when their eyes met. Shiro’s a little hazy, a little distant—and Keith’s as fond as they’ve ever been.

 

“Let me put on some music for us,” he whispered and ignored the closeness of Shiro’s face, the warm breath of alcohol on his lips and nose, and the way those stormy skies flickered down to Keith’s lips again and again. The way they traced every curve, dip and line of Keith’s face. He tore himself away, unwillingly, to put on some music on the big stereo Pidge made him for his birthday last year.

 

Shiro swayed gently where he stood, eyes still locked on Keith—fondly—as Kuro rubbed every inch of his lithe body on his legs. Keith tried not to dwell on the metaphor. He focused instead at the warmth and width of Shiro’s body, on the soft, white cotton of his T-shirt as he swayed—now in time with the music flowing through the room and bouncing off the thin walls.

 

_And to my surprise, you did say_

_This is just you and I babe_

He walked up to him, softly and quietly and on the pads of his soles, and placed both hands on his hips—waiting for Shiro’s to land firmly on his shoulders. Shiro didn’t hesitate. They started swaying together, close and yet not close enough. So close he could smell the mint in his shampoo and the stench of tequila wafting off him, and yet too far to feel the beat of his pulse or heard the grumbling of his heart and lungs. They swayed and swayed; brought together by a pull he couldn’t describe. He felt happy, drunk even, and he felt better than he’d felt in a long time. Down by their feet Kuro circled the two of them impatiently. Neither of them spoke a word, only looked at each other as they shared this moment together. He could feel the edges of Shiro soften and slide between his fingers. Like goo he came undone and melted against Keith.

 

_Oh, don’t you see it now?_

_I’m staying for a little while._

_-_

 

 

Shiro didn’t stay there for long, and yet those minutes with him in paradise felt like they stretched for all eternity and one minute at the same time. When he told Keith, he should leave before _Matty-patty_ gets mad he didn’t stop him; thought that there’s no way someone like Shiro would be single, of course, because what had he expected? And yet something inside him sounding a hell of a lot like Lance squawked and flailed about and demanded he do _something, anything._

 

 _“Stop running!”,_ it said.

 

And so, he took a piece of paper, wrote his number in haste, and sneaked it into the back pocket of Shiro’s jeans as he hugged him a little too eagerly before leaving. Possibly for good.

 

Still, he’d allow himself to hope. If only this once.

 

 

-

 

 

The next morning Shiro woke on the porch of his and Matt’s apartment. Properly hungover and with a headache so aggressively throbbing he thought it might come alive and run away from him.

 

Hazy memories of lavender and music and soft, black hair flooded his memory. Or was it fur? He couldn’t remember anything. Anything but the inexplainable warmth which coursed through him even now, on the porch of his apartment.

 

In his hand he clutched a single piece of paper for dear life. On it was a number and a name and nothing else. All things clouded in a strangely predictable secrecy.

 

“What lovely handwriting you have, Keith,” he whispered to the empty hallway, smile a soft dip in his otherwise very straight lines.

 

 

 


End file.
